


Not Near Enough

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finduilas falls out of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Near Enough

**Author's Note:**

> ficalbum prompt #4: Near Wild Heaven.
> 
> fanfic100 prompt 020: colourless.
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Nargothrond, First Age 486**

Gwindor's eyes became colourless. That is how I see them, vacant, staring at something behind me, behind the wall, behind this world. I have waited for him for so long. Fourteen years of prayers, refusing to believe that he might not ever return; fourteen years imagining him in dark places, tortured, maimed, alone and hopeless; fourteen years and my prayers were answered.

One ordinary day, he arrived in the company of a stranger. Nothing had suggested that he would return, no scouts announced travellers in the woods, no one even entertained the thought of rescuing our kin in Morgoth's thraldom. I ran to greet him as soon as I heard the news, propriety forgotten. I could see the disapproval and the mistrust in the eyes of our kin. I cared not. Gwindor was back, dirty, thin beyond belief, weary, but alive and in my arms.

It took me a few days to understand just how far the damage was to his body. I wanted to care for him, to feed him, bathe him, heal him, but he would not let me touch him or see him naked. I desisted all pretence of being a timid proper maiden and set camp in his rooms, ignoring the scandal and even my father's warnings. Gwindor needed caring, true nurturing, not the sterile handling of the servants. His family was all gone. I was all he had.

Gwindor did his best to shut me out, but he was week and he yearned for proximity to another, even if he was unwilling to admit it. I tried to be gentle when all I wanted was to hold him tight and make him whole anew. In a few months, his wounds had closed, though angry red welts promised ugly scars. His form was lean but no longer emaciated, and he accepted my embraces without cringing. His eyes were still cold, though.

I promised myself to heal his spirit, too. It was hard to see in him the elf that had started the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, he who jumped at the faintest sound. Still, I believed that it was possible for him to be strong and brave as before. I had loved him gentle and joyous, but I had loved him fiery and fierce best, and I would have him back. All he needed was time.

In Nargothrond we never lacked eyes following us, disapproving at first, then pitying, but never offering the warmth or trust he deserved. His room was his only shelter.

I persuade him to take me for a ride in Taur-en- faroth as we had done in the past. We would be alone and the sun would dissipate the gloom that doused Nargothrond. It was hard to convince him; everywhere he saw orcs ready to take him, despite the reports declaring the forest safe. Still I insisted. This was a rare pleasure that we used to share, and I was sure it would do him good, after he overcame his anxiety.

I knew many muttered that I was spoiled, that it was dangerous and costly to the vaults of Nargothrond, but I let them. I would do this much and more to try to bring some semblance of life to Gwindor's eyes. The first times, he had barely enjoyed the ride, his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword, his eyes darting to every shadow. I tried to be patient and was properly rewarded. On later occasions, he became gradually more at ease, and I believed that all my devotion and the fresh air and sunlight were working their magic on him.

He no longer seemed to fear his own shadow. His body had returned to its former beauty, strong and agile, the scars covered by clothes. I did not mind them, though. When we walked together he raised his eyes to meet our acquaintances'. He spoke in council and took back many of his former duties. And the more he seemed to return to himself, the more I felt that something was amiss.

It was on one of these rides in the forest that I realized just what. One day we rode upon wild boar. We stopped abruptly, waiting for the beast to flee the glade, but it just stood there, staring at us. Every detail of the scene seemed heightened: the horses' breathing and the rustling of the leaves sounded loud, though only a breeze blew; the contrast between light and shadow, charming before, now was almost blinding; the scent of the decaying leaves seemed more poignant and the smell of the animal reached us as if we were standing next to it. I could smell fear in the air.

I looked at Gwindor from the corner of my eye, afraid of what the slightest movement could cause. A sheen of cold sweat covered his pale face, and his hand moved to the bow that was not there. I regretted insisting so much for him to leave his small arsenal at home. I wanted him free of cares and now we were at risk; he carried a single short blade, my only concession to our safety.

My mare, a skittish animal, was the first to break the stillness. I tried to stop her uncertain backing, but it was too late. The boar advanced and so did Gwindor, as I watched in horror - he could not possibly win such a match. In a matter of a few seconds he was covered in blood and the boar lay dying, savagely cut by Gwindor's multiple stabs, blood still gushing out of its neck.

I could not recognise my lover in that trembling mass of terror. This was not the first time I had seen him kill game, but gone was the elegance and skill of the noble lord he was. All that was left was a dark instinct, ugly fear, barbaric relief in his tainted smile. I shut my eyes.

We rode back home, I in silence, he lost in wild ramblings about his deed. I could not stand it. The bragging sounded petty, something so far from Gwindor's nature that it was as if a stranger rode by my side. It was as if he were trying to prove to me he was still brave and able. I hated that.

I could now identify clearly what was amiss: Gwindor's fire had been replaced by a humble spark that only lit short, cold fires. From that day on, whenever he spoke against open warfare, I heard his wild fear, not wisdom; whenever he spoke against Agarwaen's quests, I heard jealousy; and when he counselled my father against the building of the bridge, I only saw the terror in his eyes.

These little things eroded my regard in him, then my trust. We drew apart at each day, but I held on for loyalty and because I was all he had left. I could not understand him, who would live in shadows, prey to the fear of the enemy. I had seen the marks on his body and long ago I had held him while he mourned his brother; I knew what the enemy had taken from him. Where was the fire? He should long for revenge, no matter what price it held. This elf that had been returned to me was not my Gwindor of the fiery eyes. He was certainly not the elf who had started the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

There was one who understood, though, one who had kept his fire alive. Agarwaen's blood still ran hot in his veins, and wanting or not, my heart turned to him. My guilt weighted heavily, but it cried for freedom. It cried for Agarwaen.

 

_Finis  
September 2008_


End file.
